Blood Rose. Sharon Page

crawled, and Lord Sommersby’s powerful arms bumped her rear end since he could move much faster than she. His lordship’s apologies made her ache to laugh. Finally Draft Swift reached for her arms, locked his strong hands on hers, and helped her forward. With a reassuring wink, he set her to her feet. Foolish to feel such triumph over conquering a tunnel, over Swift’s approval of her courage.

      Mr. Swift’s candle threw light on the circular space surrounding them, revealing stone blocks, oozing muck, and several shadowy doorways. Swift immediately went to the nearest arched wooden door set into the stone wall. “How do I open the lock, sweetheart?”

      “Miss Lark,” Sommersby corrected through gritted teeth.

      They were facing danger and arguing over endearments. “It is a special type of lock, gentlemen. It contains a barrel-type device, with numbers that must be lined up to a pin for the pin to slide free.”

      “Let me, Swift.” Sommersby handed Serena the candle and moved to take his partner’s place.

      “I can line up a few numbers, Sommersby,” Swift snapped. “What are they, Miss Lark?”

      “1, 3, 7, and 9, sir,” she said. At least, those were the numbers recorded in a vampire hunter’s journal.

      Swift’s fingers turned the numbers slowly. From the side, she saw him struggle with the old lock. Her heart sank as he tried to pull the lock apart. “It doesn’t work,” she breathed.

      “A moment, Miss Lark.” He pulled again, harder. With a reluctant creak, the lock opened. She’d been correct! She’d solved an ancient puzzle and found something no other vampire hunter had done.

      Swift peered around the door. “There’s another door, Miss Lark. With a padlock.”

      “There can’t be!” She hoisted her robe and ran around to look. But it was—a padlock that required a key. Her shoulders sagged in despair. She hadn’t read anything in any of the Society’s books about a second door or about a key. Perhaps the lock wasn’t truly locked. She prayed that was so, but Swift tried it and it would not open. Serena seethed in frustration.

      Lord Sommersby drew out a slim piece of metal and pushed Drake Swift aside. “Lock pick” was all he said, and he slid it into the keyhole. He jiggled it and then she heard a “click.”

      Suddenly Serena felt panic. She must get in there before Sommersby told her she could not. She raced up to Drake Swift and put her hand on his hip. His hip was solid, lean, and a flame seemed to race through her blood at the touch. Swift glanced down at her, and she caught her breath at the desire in his eyes. A sudden battle waged behind his heated eyes. Would he grab her or send her back? Then he caught hold of her wrist and pulled her along with him.

      The room was unlit, though Swift’s candle gave a circle of light. The anteroom they’d been in was an ill-fashioned domed space. Serena pulled away from Swift and spun in a circle, drinking in the room. Excitement surged. This room was rectangular—a large, carefully crafted vault below ground. It was fashioned of finished stone, and shelves lined the walls. There was a true floor of stone, each slab perfectly interlocked with the others. A simple table and chairs sat in the middle of the room. There was dust, though; fine brown silt seemed to cover everything. Serena supposed that modern vampires found little use for the journals of the past.

      “So you were correct, little lark.”

      Before she could answer Swift, Lord Sommersby ducked to cross the threshold. He let out his breath in a low whistle.

      Now she had to be clever. She crossed to the shelves at the farthest corner of the room. The system used to arrange the books was obscure. It had taken her a long time to decode it from notes. And it had been hard to keep the gentlemen of the Society distracted while she was trying to do it. They always had such meaningless tasks and errands for her.

      Hesitantly Serena reached out and touched the leather binding of a book, but Sommersby moved immediately to her side. His torch threw light on the shelf. He bent, as though to study a volume in front of her, and he murmured by her ear, “You know how these are arranged? You’re a clever woman.”

      “I am.” Agreeing seemed the best option. She drew out the book, bound in red leather and untitled. She lifted the cover. The ink had faded, the script was ornate, difficult to read, and the date was 1582. She slipped it back in and drew out the next. Writings on Elizabeth Bathory from 1700.

      It confirmed what she’d expected. She put the Elizabeth Bathory book back into place and scanned the rest of the shelf.

      “I was right.” She couldn’t help but let triumph creep in. “They aren’t organized by date or by author. They are organized by each vampire who tends the library—it is always men—in a system unique to him. Each librarian had a section. This book came in during the end of the last century, when the library was brought here.”

      She knew exactly where she had to look, but Sommersby watched her every move. “You could look at the other shelves, my lord,” she suggested.

      “But I have the light, Miss Lark. We should work together.”

      Blast. Serena moved to the shelf she wanted, her heart pounding. Could she distract him in some way when she found the book? Or grab the one beside it and then slip out the one she really wanted?

      “I’m going out for a moment.” It was Swift’s voice. Going out? Where? But she couldn’t worry about that now.

      Serena counted back six books. It should be…it wasn’t. Her fingers trembled over the two books and the slight gap between them. A book was missing. Vlad Dracul’s journal was gone!

      She slid out the nearest work—a sheath of linen held with a slim ribbon. The paper had yellowed, the ink faded, but the Latin script was painstakingly beautiful. She would guess it to be a piece of a monastery manuscript—perhaps six centuries old. She held ancient history in her hand.

      But it was not Vlad Dracul’s journal. It might be a phenomenally valuable book, but it was worthless to her. Had the journal merely been misplaced? Heart pounding, she pulled out book after book.

      “Looking for a particular book?”

      The book she held fell from her hand.

      Lord Sommersby’s leather-clad knuckles stroked her cheek. “Easy, my dear.”

      She wasn’t crying, but her breath was fast, almost beyond her control. Without Dracul’s journal, what could she use to coerce Ashcroft to give her the truth? How could it not be here? It was forbidden amongst vampires to take from this collection—

      Really, what was she thinking? Vampires preyed on humans. They fought constantly for supremacy. As if they would obey the rules of the library!

      “What book did you want, Miss Lark? Tell me.” Sommersby’s voice was soft, soothing.

      What was she to do now? Here, in one of these books, could be information about her vampire father. But did she have the time to look at all the books? And she had no idea what to look for or where to start.

      Serena drew away from Lord Sommersby’s touch and forced herself to sound calm. “I want to find the books from the time of my parents’ deaths,” she lied.

      “Miss Lark.” He cupped her chin. She obeyed the command of his long, elegant fingers and met his gaze. His lips were just a hairbreadth from hers. Warm, promising safety, promising escape from failure and from the damned constant fight to learn who she was.

      Serena arched up on her toes, seeking him. Her lips touched his. Heat. Sparks. Pleasure. His mouth opened and hers followed. His tongue teased—coaxing hers into play. She dueled with his tongue as he plunged it deliciously into her mouth, a promise of so much more…Her fingers closed around the earl’s strong arms. All she wanted to do was kiss him. His mouth on hers was so erotic. Her heart beat in her throat.

      She’d failed, she’d almost lost her life on this gamble, and all she wanted to do was kiss his lordship. She wanted to melt into Sommersby’s